


Still Life

by clubstocrews23



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22217884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clubstocrews23/pseuds/clubstocrews23
Summary: Eliott will never love anyone in the way that he loves Lucas.
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	Still Life

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and leave a comment or request if you enjoyed it! I love all of you so much.

Moments like this are the kind Eliott wants to capture and seal in a bottle. They are the scenes in collectible snow globes, the seconds of time that belong on a screen above a crowd of thousands when the true audience is within them. They are timeless, yet the purpose of time itself. He tries to replicate and preserve them in medium, be it by paint or in pencil, but the experience far overshadows the depiction. Moments of happiness. One moment of happiness can atone for a million of despair.

Nothing yet may pull them from the reverie, the cocoon in which they sleep. The lazy circles Eliott traces on Lucas’s back may well be watercolor strokes, each of a new and brilliant color to fade into skin. Blue first, for the sadness they have endured to be together. Red, for the passion and love that has carried them thus far and will carry them for another hundred years. Green more so than the rest, in long elegant swoops of the brush to represent the future that stretches in front of them. Limitless on all sides, just as this moment feels. He cannot put it in a bottle; to do so would be to hinder its infinite nature. While he can design perfect circles along shoulder blades, he cannot hope to retain even a memory that will do this justice.

Lucas. Lucas beside him, vulnerable. Lucas trusting him to still be there in the morning, huddled beneath the covers. Each part of Lucas is a new exploration. Should Eliott trail his hands from Lucas’s back, he can follow the pathways of his ribs until he feels Lucas’s breaths with his own. Should he choose to roll them both to their backs once more, he can stare into the endless ocean tide in Lucas’s eyes. From henceforth, Eliott decides, blue will signify trust above sadness, harmony above melancholy, because he can hold in his arms the reason for which the color sprang. 

And he thinks, but does not say, that there is no greater happiness than hearing your description from someone who loves you. He thinks, art exists for Lucas and himself, and they create it without charcoal or pastel. They are art that a movie could never translate to silver and gold upon a high-standing screen. He will run his hands across hips, chest, legs, along the ridge of collarbone and across the back of the neck until there is nothing left to escape his touch. He will create a new picture, a poor comparison to the reality unfolding, where he rolls up forever and offers it to his love with one end lit.

Lucas, he thinks, always Lucas. Lucas takes the cigarette from his outstretched hand and uses the ash to draw a heart between them.


End file.
